


keep on your mean side

by likecharity



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Blushing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Guilt, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Cheating, In a way, Inappropriate Erections, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Denial, Shame, Under-negotiated Kink, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24687727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: [Danny]'s waiting to be told, Drew realizes, and he doesn't know if that's because it's a part of the thing they're doing or because he's afraid to fuck this up, afraid of being the one to finally cross that line. As if they haven't crossed it already. And fuck Danny, honestly, for leaving it up to Drew to take things further.Not that he's about to refuse.
Relationships: Danny Gonzalez/Drew Gooden
Comments: 106
Kudos: 124





	keep on your mean side

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Danny's episode of Drew's podcast and there was that bit at the end where Drew was being a dick to him as a joke, and this is where my brain went.
> 
> Title from 'Hitched' by The Kills.

"Dude, why are you so fidgety?" Drew asks, frowning as he starts taking down the recording equipment.

"What? I'm not," says Danny, and it's a blatant lie, because he's literally fidgeting as he says it—Drew can see him out of the corner of his eye, tugging at the neckline of his shirt and shifting from side to side on the couch. "Is your camera okay?"

"Don't change the subject," says Drew, putting the camera down on the coffee table in order to look at Danny properly. He seems really—uncomfortable? Like he can't sit still. And it's late, and they just spent well over an hour recording a podcast, and Drew is _wiped_ , so he doesn't understand how Danny apparently has all this excess energy. Danny rubs his hands over his face and Drew squints at him.

"Are you like, upset?" he asks, and he means it genuinely, but he's still—in character, or whatever, and so it accidentally comes out mocking.

Danny flashes him a grin and rolls his eyes. "No," he says, his voice a little petulant.

"Did I hurt your _feelings_?" Drew teases, confident now that whatever's up with him, it's not that.

"No," says Danny, voice harder this time, and then suddenly, "shut up."

This takes Drew by surprise, because he thought they were messing around, doing a bit, and it's not like Danny at all to just abruptly put the brakes on like that. He goes along with the vast majority of Drew's nonsense, and even if he's not feeling it the most he'll do is go quiet if Drew's not catching on. He doesn't just flat-out tell Drew to _shut up_ , at least not in such a harsh tone and out of nowhere, like Drew has actually crossed a line.

 _Has_ Drew crossed a line? They're normally so on the same wavelength; it's weird to not be able to tell what Danny's thinking.

"I'm confused," he says, quite honestly.

"Forget it," says Danny, and Drew doesn't know how he's supposed to do that when Danny's still squirming about on the sofa and biting his lip. There's clearly something up with him.

"You're being weird," Drew informs him.

"Yeah," says Danny distractedly, and now he's just staring off into the middle distance like he's not even paying attention, which kind of pisses Drew off for some reason.

"Super fucking weird," Drew elaborates. Danny starts jiggling one knee. "Like can you not sit still for one fucking second?"

Danny laughs, but it's not a real laugh, it's more like an attempt to diffuse the tension.

"No, seriously," says Drew; he's not gonna let this go. "You're _flustered_ , man, what is up with you? What, do you like, get off on being scolded or something?" he asks, and it's definitely just to wind Danny up, _obviously_ a joke, just a stupid absurd thought that flings itself out of nowhere into the forefront of Drew's mind.

"Oh yeah, you being an asshole makes my dick rock hard, so watch out," Danny quips, and it almost works, almost makes Drew laugh and forget the whole thing, only—

Only he wasn't quite quick enough. There was a split second of hesitation before he spoke, so brief that most people wouldn't have even registered it, but Drew _knows_ Danny, he notices these things. Like the rosy-pink flush rising across Danny's cheeks, and how Danny can't seem to look him in the eye.

"Wow," says Drew, unsure for a second whether to drop it or play along, but who's he kidding? He can't possibly resist the urge to keep prodding, to see where this goes. "That's kinda fucked up."

Danny eyes him uneasily from under the swoop of his hair. "What are you trying to do? Gonna get me all worked up, dude. I'll have your—" he stumbles, laughing breathily, his voice hoarse, "have your fuckin' eye out."

"Yeah?" Drew taunts. "You're that into it, you little sicko?"

He laughs, but Danny doesn't, and Drew realizes how utterly still he is all of a sudden, the twitchiness from earlier totally gone. He's staring at the floor now, frozen in place.

"Drew," he says abruptly, and there's an edge to it, pleading and maybe a little fearful, and the full weight of the realization hits Drew square in the chest. Okay, yeah—this isn't a joke. He goes tense and feels something flare inside of him, sharp and hot. 

He doesn't want to actually like, _check_. To look at the one part of Danny that would prove without a doubt whether this is an actual Thing that's happening between them or just a skit that's gone completely off the rails. And the truth is he doesn't even _need_ to look between Danny's legs to know. His arousal is written all over his face, Drew can see it plain as day. He's all lit up with a blotchy flush; even the bridge of his nose is red, and the tips of his ears. He's biting at his bottom lip, and his pupils are big and dark as his gaze flits anxiously to meet Drew's and then just as quickly darts away again. Drew's never seen him like this. He _shouldn't_ be seeing him like this.

"Are you for real?" Drew murmurs. He shouldn't be asking that question. He should be calling this off right now, finding whatever words would enable them to laugh about it and then go to bed, safe in the knowledge that, while tonight might've got a little weird, they never actually did anything wrong. And yet he knows he has absolutely no intention of doing that.

"God," says Danny, his voice rough, like it's paining him to speak. He rubs his hands over his face and then flings himself back against the couch cushions. "Fuck," he adds, the word drawn out.

Drew just sits there for a long moment, keeping his eyes trained on where Danny's hands are covering his face as he awaits an actual answer. Then, belatedly, he realizes Danny's body language _is_ his answer. Now, as well as going still, he's no longer hunched over; he's opened himself right up. He's letting Drew see.

So Drew finally, finally lets his gaze creep downwards, and with the way Danny's sprawled on the couch with his legs spread it's impossible to miss the sizeable bulge in his jeans. 

And he already _knew_ , so why does it feel like such a gut punch? 

"Oh," says Drew quietly. "Okay, I see." His heart is pounding so fast he feels a little sick.

"You can leave," Danny offers, voice muffled against his hands. "Like, if you want to get away from me."

"Yeah," says Drew mindlessly, still staring, because Danny can't see that he's staring and that makes it seem sort of all right, even though it's definitely not all right at all. None of this is. 

"Yeah?" echoes Danny in a small voice. "Yeah like you want to?" 

He sounds anxious, maybe a little hurt. Drew doesn't understand how this works, like, at all. If he tells Danny this is gross and says he doesn't want to be in the same room as him—won't that just turn him on even more? It seems like a catch-22: how do you reject someone who seemingly gets off on rejection? But even as he thinks of it that way he knows he's only trying to make himself feel better. There must be a million ways to put a stop to this; it's just that he doesn't want to.

"I _should_ leave," Drew says slowly, forcing himself to look back up at Danny's face even though it's still obscured by his hands. "Because this is definitely freaking me out, but I think I've got a—like, a morbid curiosity or something, about—" _about your dick? About the fact that I somehow made you this hard? About what might happen if I keep going?_ He swallows, his throat tight. "About how weird you are," he says eventually.

Danny nods, lifting his hands away from his face and placing them on his lap instead, which draws Drew's eyes back to his crotch, the denim stretched over the swell of his cock. 

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry," Danny says quietly and his voice stutters. He shakes his head. "I didn't mean to—uh. React like this." He chuckles, but the sound quickly dies out. "I don't know why I did."

"Uh, 'cause you're a fucking weirdo?" offers Drew, and the words come easily, because he's ribbed Danny like this a million times before, only—not like this at all.

"Yeah," Danny whispers, and there's that hoarse quality in his voice again which Drew is finding horribly, worryingly attractive. "Drew," he says, his voice low, "I'm so fucking hard."

Drew's heart is in his throat. He tries to stay calm. He can feel his own dick starting to react, thickening up in his pants from the words and the way Danny sounds and the needy look in his eyes. "Yeah? Does it _hurt_?" he murmurs, all mock-sympathy.

Danny swallows and then, very slowly and deliberately, palms the front of his jeans, and Drew's mouth goes dry. 

"Take it out," he hears himself say.

"What?"

"You heard me," says Drew, and he's trying to sound firm but his voice quivers. "Show me."

"Drew," says Danny, his fingers going to his fly and hovering there, uncertain, "are you sure?" 

"Yeah, I mean, maybe I don't even believe you, you know? Maybe I think you're making a big fuss about nothing," Drew babbles. Can't Danny just _do_ it already? Before Drew comes to his senses and realizes what a monumentally horrible idea this is?

Danny inhales shakily.

"I don't know what you're waiting for," Drew goes on, crossly, as if there aren't any totally valid reasons for Danny not to show him his cock. He feels too tightly wound, almost irritable. He wants Danny to hurry up and get it out, he wants—he wants to fucking _see_ it. His skin prickles with the want. "What, are you scared? Is it small? Is it deformed? You think I'm gonna laugh at it?"

"No," says Danny in a small voice, and then, "Drew," again, and there's a touch of urgency to it that makes Drew's ears prick up, makes everything suddenly feel sharper and more real. "Like—are we really doing this?"

"You want to, don't you?" Drew asks him, and he means to sound like he's judging Danny for it, but instead it comes off hopeful, pleading.

"Yeah, fuck," Danny breathes, rubbing his hands over his face again and worsening the ruddy flush across his cheeks. "I'm sorry. But like—fuck. I really want to."

"Me too," Drew admits. He doesn't really mean to, he just—says it, almost by mistake, and Danny flicks a glance up at him, vulnerable and heated.

 _Oh god, oh fucking_ hell _, what is happening._

"Right," says Danny, like he's steadying himself, "yeah, well—okay, then."

He pops the button, pulls the zipper, and Drew watches the whole time, his eyes fixed on every movement of Danny's clumsy fingers, trying to mentally edit out the wedding band. He draws in a sharp breath, involuntary, once Danny spreads his fly open and Drew can see the shape of his dick through his underwear, solid and swollen, the fabric clinging tightly to it. There's a fucking wet spot darkening the cotton. Drew feels a little hysterical, even as he sits there absolutely motionless. He's too hot, sweating in his fucking hoodie, and Danny's hesitating and Drew feels almost nauseated with anticipation and frustration.

"Show me," he hears himself demand, and it's too much, he sounds like an asshole, like a _creep_ , but—

Danny obliges, tugging back the waistband, and for a moment Drew feels like he can't breathe. He absolutely, definitely should not be seeing this, and yet no part of him wants to look away. He just stares, and he can hear Danny's nervous breathing as he does it, as he takes it all in—the sight of Danny's cock, exposed, thick and reddened, curving up towards his stomach and shining wet at the tip.

"Fuck," Drew says emphatically, once he's remembered how to make words. "You got that hard just from me being mean to you?"

Danny laughs shakily and runs a hand through his hair, which is not something he normally does when it's so neatly styled. Drew can tell that he's embarrassed and trying to pretend otherwise. "Yeah," he breathes. "Impressive, huh." 

"Neat party trick, for sure." 

Danny doesn't laugh, and Drew makes himself look back up at his face. His eyes are glassy, pupils huge. Is he thinking about Drew actually doing this to him at a party? No, that's fucking stupid, but it still makes Drew's stomach clench. It would be so easy—throw a couple of barbed comments Danny's way and watch his pants get tight in front of all their friends. 

"Drew," says Danny weakly, like he needs something. He's not touching himself and it's so obvious how badly he wants to; Drew aches in sympathy just looking at him. It's obscene, his cock sticking out of his pants like that, dripping onto his white t-shirt.

He's waiting to be told, Drew realizes, and he doesn't know if that's because it's a part of the thing they're doing or because he's afraid to fuck this up, afraid of being the one to finally cross that line. As if they haven't crossed it already. And fuck Danny, honestly, for leaving it up to Drew to take things further.

Not that he's about to refuse.

"You need to touch it?" Drew asks, and he's amazed by how confident his voice sounds considering he's freaking the fuck out on the inside.

"Yeah," says Danny in a small voice, and scrunches his eyes shut. "Like, really bad."

"Yeah? You're that desperate?" Drew finds he can say it almost lazily, like they're just having a casual conversation. He tries to pretend that they are.

"Fuck," says Danny, voice barely a whisper.

"You wanna jerk off, even though I'm right here, watching?"

Danny's cock twitches. " _Drew,_ " he whines, and he sounds fucking broken and he hasn't even got a hand on himself yet.

It's too easy. Way too fucking easy. "Go on then."

Danny doesn't need to be told twice. He spits quickly into his cupped palm and then immediately wraps it round his dick, letting out a sigh that makes Drew's own erection ache in his jeans. He resolves to ignore it, to focus on the sight of Danny beside him, stroking himself urgently. It's hard to think of much else, anyway, when Danny's rolling his hips like that and moaning softly. He falls silent, just staring, his mind shocked blank.

"Drew, keep—" Danny says haltingly, voice thick, "keep talking to me?"

"What do you mean?" 

Drew knows what he means.

Danny doesn't say anything. His cheeks and eyes are bright, and his hand keeps working on himself, sliding smooth and slick up and down his cock, skimming over it, eager and messy.

"You mean, tell you how pathetic you are?" Drew prompts. It feels—different, now. Of course it does. He's not just saying shit as a joke, he's saying it to get Danny off, and of course that's fucking _different_. It's fucking _wrong_ , is what it is, and he should never have gone down this road, no matter how much Danny might've been asking for it. One of them's supposed to have boundaries, at least. One of them's got to be the sensible one, surely, otherwise who's fucking driving this thing?

"Yeah," Danny breathes out, twisting his wrist. 

"You want me to tell you how fucking weird this is? I didn't know you were so messed up, man." He swallows, trying to think of what else Danny might want to hear, but it's hard to concentrate on being cruel and cutting when he's watching Danny fuck his own fist like that. "Didn't realize you were so into me," he hears himself say. "I mean, it's gotta be bad, if you get turned on even when I'm insulting you."

Drew knows he's distorting things, or at least he's pretty sure he is. He's pretty sure it was the insults themselves that got Danny hot somehow, not _him_ —his attitude, maybe, but it's wishful thinking to imagine it was anything more than that. It's not right, implying Danny's _into him_ , when he doesn't know what the fuck is going on in Danny's head. Danny probably gets a boner when _anyone's_ mean to him, if this is his whole thing. Right? Drew doesn't fucking know how kinks work, but that sounds about right. It sure seems more plausible than Danny being so horny for him that he'd take whatever kind of attention Drew's willing to give.

Still, it's hard to doubt his words when Danny's reacting the way he is—letting out these little broken-off moans and hitching his hips up, thrusting his cock into the hot curl of his fist. _Fuck._ Did Drew actually hit a nerve?

"You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to see your cock?" It doesn't make sense, not when Drew already fucking _admitted_ he wanted to see it, but it seems to be doing it for Danny anyway, which—yeah. That's gratifying. "I just wanted to see if you were dumb enough to believe me. Like, this is fucking gross, man. That you need it so bad you've gotta get off right in front of me. Like you couldn't fucking wait."

Danny whimpers, tipping his head back into the cushions, throat outstretched, chest taut beneath his t-shirt. His Adam's apple bobs.

"Couldn't wait 'til you were alone, like a normal person," Drew mutters, and Danny nods vaguely. He's shut his eyes, which means Drew can safely take a second to stare at his stupid pretty face, his eyebrows all drawn up like he's in pain, his pink lips parted. His hair is all tousled and suddenly the urge to touch him gets Drew in the gut.

"You think this is how I wanted to spend my time with you? Like, Jesus," Drew says, his desire morphing into a surge of genuine anger that catches him off-guard. He's not actually mad at Danny—only he is, in a way, because Danny's fucking spread out on the couch in front of him _looking like that_ , and he can't touch him, he _can't_ , and it's not fucking fair. "I wouldn't have even come here if I'd known you were such a desperate fucking slut."

Drew's voice is like acid, and Danny moans weakly then flings his arm haphazardly across his face like he's trying to hide how much Drew's words are getting to him. Drew wants to grab that arm and pin it to the couch, force Danny to show himself. He wants to see exactly what effect he's having on him, wants to analyze every minute facial expression. Danny's hand is moving faster on his cock, a blur, and Drew wants to feel it, wants to feel the hot sticky cling of skin against his palm, wants to see the way Danny's mouth would open in a perfect little O if Drew reached out and took over.

But he can't. It's as if it's okay, that they're doing this, as long as they don't actually touch—even though Drew knows that's the most absolutely fucking absurd excuse; this clearly _isn't_ okay otherwise he'd be totally chill about it, instead of feeling sick from the guilt churning in his stomach. But he knows it could be _worse_ , at least, and that salves the burn of his conscience just a little, just enough to make it bearable. 

He can feel his dick pulsing, trapped tight in his jeans, hot and sore. There's envy as well as lust in the way he watches Danny jacking off; it would be so easy, to stick his hand down his own pants and find that same relief. But that, too, would only make things worse, and so he digs his fingernails into his own palms as a distraction and ignores the throb.

"Drew, need your voice," Danny pants, and Drew's stomach flips over. _Fuck._

"You _need_ my _voice_?" he echoes, and Danny squirms, scrunching his eyes shut tighter, humiliated. "What, you need me to talk you through it? How do you manage on your own, Danny?" 

Saying his name makes Danny's cock jump in his hand and Drew sees it get wetter, sees the spurt of precome drip onto Danny's fingers. God, he wants to touch it, wants to smear it with his thumb, right down the length of Danny's cock, trailing a gentle touch so agonizingly soft and slow that he'd have Danny begging for more in seconds. Drew would tease him _so good_. He'd make him fucking _tremble_.

He has to do it with his words instead. That's all he has.

"Do you lie there imagining me talking shit to you while you're jerking off?" he asks, hoping Danny doesn't notice the new shakiness in his voice. "Or do you put my videos on and listen to those? Is that like your version of porn? Me making fun of people?"

" _Fuck_ ," Danny spits out. "Drew, I'm close."

"Already? Jesus, you don't last long," Drew says mildly, but along with a jolt of sick excitement, Danny's words bring a sinking feeling. He wants to tell him to slow down, because he knows this is going to be the first and last time anything like this ever happens, and he needs to savor it. He doesn't feel like he's had enough yet. He doesn't think he could _ever_ get enough of seeing Danny like this. But the quicker it's over the better, the sooner they can start pretending this never fucking happened.

"Just—" says Danny meaninglessly, hips twisting up into the air, and Drew stares at his dick pushing through his fist, shiny and stiff. He _is_ close, Drew can see it, in the tension in his body, the shuddery jerks of his hand.

"Are you gonna come all over yourself?" Drew asks, and the words make him want to stick his hand between his legs, just for the pressure, but he can't. He _can't_. "You're so disgusting. Jesus Christ, Danny, what's wrong with you?"

"I don't—I don't know, I don't know, I just—" Danny babbles desperately, voice pitched high, and Drew is alarmed to see tears glinting at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall. Is that good or bad? How's he supposed to know? Danny's still working himself over frantically, so it's probably good, but he looks so fucking overwhelmed that Drew feels a further stab of guilt.

"You're such a pervert," he says, anyway.

"I know," Danny whimpers. "Drew, please—"

"I don't know what you're begging for," Drew snaps, frustration swelling bitterly inside of him again. "What, you want me to touch you? You actually think I'd do that?"

Danny makes a soft sound, like a sob, and Drew clenches his thighs together until his muscles start to burn. 

"You think I'd put my hands on that?" he goes on, even as he fucking longs to, can imagine how it would feel, firm in his grip as he stroked it just right. He'd have a lot more control than Danny does right now, anyway; he'd take him apart carefully, bit by bit, until he saw fit to send him hurtling helplessly over the edge. "C'mon, Danny, in what fucking world—"

Drew cuts himself off, startled as Danny suddenly flings his arm down in order to grip at the sofa cushion. He digs his fingers viciously into the fabric and makes a keening sound that Drew can't fully appreciate because Danny's hand is now dangerously close to his own, where it's resting awkwardly on the edge of the couch. Drew has an instinctive urge to jerk away, but he can't seem to move a muscle.

"You're delusional if you think I'd ever touch you like that," he says quietly, and it feels like he's trying to convince himself. "You know I wouldn't." _You know I can't._

"Yeah," murmurs Danny with a hiccupping breath, chest heaving, and then he moves his arm again and suddenly Drew feels skin on skin like an electric shock. Danny's hand seizes his wrist, palm hot and damp with sweat, grasping _tight_.

Drew is stunned. He can't shake Danny off, can't even think of anything to say, frozen.

"Fuck," Danny chokes out, and then he's coming, clutching at Drew's wrist as his whole body shudders, and Drew watches his hips flex and his balls draw up tight, watches his rhythm falter as he spurts over the curl of his fingers and up onto his shirt. Drew's own arousal gnaws at him like hunger, it feels like something inside of him is burning as he sees the come spilling over Danny's fist, the look of pained bliss on his face, his cheeks stained fever-red.

What would Danny do, Drew wonders, if he just gave in and unzipped his pants right now? He can picture him all pliant and fucked-out, happy to let Drew unclasp his fingers from his wrist and move them somewhere they'd be more useful. Drew gazes at Danny's pretty pink mouth, open and gasping, and thinks about sliding a hand round the back of his head and into his mussed-up hair, guiding him down, fitting his cock between those plush lips. He could do it. He thinks Danny would let him, if he said the right words. He thinks Danny might want it.

He can feel Danny's ring pressing into his wrist bone.

He does nothing. He just waits for Danny to come down. It seems to take an age, but slowly, gradually, Danny's grip goes slack and finally his hand falls away.

"Fuck," Danny says again after another long moment. He wipes his wet hand on his shirt, where the splashes of come are already turning the white fabric transparent and clingy. Drew feels like he's been turned on and denying himself for so long that it's just his natural state of being; he doesn't understand how he was ever able to look at Danny and not want him so badly he felt like he was on fire.

Danny eyes him, his gaze flickery and shy. Drew has no idea how he might look and isn't bothering to try and mask it, his energy utterly drained by the effort of trying to contain his arousal. 

"Say something," says Danny.

"What the fuck do you want me to say?!" Drew bursts out, so jittery and anxious that he almost laughs.

"I don't know," says Danny, with an apologetic sort of half-smile. "Something nice now, maybe?"

Drew flounders. "Good job?" he suggests, raising both hands in a gesture of cluelessness, and then he really does laugh, because it's so absurd, because this entire situation is so absurd, and—thank God—Danny starts cracking up too.

"Thanks," says Danny through his laughter, using his clean hand to wipe the tears from his eyes in a quick, self-conscious little motion. He clears his throat. "It was my best work."

"Yeah, it looked like you knew what you were doing."

"Oh, you know, I've had some practice," Danny says with a grin, and it's weird because it feels like—normal, like how the two of them always are, throwing lines back and forth, riffing off each other. Only now, surely, everything has changed.

Drew thinks about saying, _you'll have to give me some pro tips, I can never do it right_ —but he doesn't want to risk Danny actually taking him up on the offer. Not that he would, Drew's probably living in a dreamland, but if he _did_ , Drew knows his resolve would crumble in a millisecond. 

Danny tucks himself back into his underwear and Drew doesn't watch, gazing vacantly across the room instead until he hears the sound of Danny's zipper. He tugs his hoodie down over his erection. God, he's so fucking hard. Maybe at some point earlier tonight he might've thought he could get away with not doing anything about it, but now he knows he's going to have to get off. And he knows the kind of thoughts that are going to be going through his head when he does.

"So, uh. We're gonna pretend like that never happened, right?" he prompts, suddenly needing Danny to get out of here, leave him alone so he can get his hands on himself.

"Oh yeah, good call," says Danny amiably, "for sure."

Drew looks at him, looks at how completely disheveled he is, his stained shirt and his messy hair and the sleepy, satisfied look in his eyes. He wonders how he's ever going to be able to make himself forget all of this, but he knows he'll have to try. He's sure Danny knows it too. They're both well aware of how absolutely, devastatingly life-ruining this could be if they allowed it to continue. It doesn't even need to be said.

"I don't actually think you're gross, by the way," he blurts out.

"Oh," says Danny, caught off guard, which is totally fair because they just decided they were never going to speak of this again and then Drew like, _immediately_ did. "Yeah? Thanks."

"Like, yeah it's weird, but it's fine," Drew goes on, nowhere near as eloquent as he'd like to be, but his brain is fried. "I'm not, like, kinkshaming you or whatever. I mean, I know I was literally kinkshaming you like thirty seconds ago, but it was only because—because you wanted me to. Because kinkshaming is your actual kink, apparently."

Danny laughs, loud and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners. God, Drew loves his laugh so much, loves to make him laugh. "Right, yeah," Danny says. "No, that makes sense. I figured."

Drew wants to say more. He wants to tell Danny—just, you know, by the way—that of course he would touch him if he could, of course he wants to, it's all he can think about. But voicing any of that would be dangerous, and he has no idea what Danny even wants to hear right now. He can't possibly be as chill about this as he seems, but Drew can't read the look on his face at _all_. Drew shouldn't even be wondering, and he certainly shouldn't _want_ Danny to feel as completely disassembled as he does right now. If Danny's acting like it's no big deal, if he's willing to put it behind them—that's a good thing. 

So Drew's not sure why it stings. 

A few more agonizing seconds tick by, and then Danny says, "Jesus, this is awkward." 

"No kidding." Drew laughs, but it sounds hollow.

Danny gets to his feet, brushing himself down. "I'm gonna clean myself up and go to bed, all right?"

"Yeah, you're a mess," says Drew, without thinking, and somehow Danny flushes even redder.

"Oh yeah, like _you're_ totally composed," he bites back, grinning wickedly, and Drew's heart sinks at the realization he's not covering anything up as successfully as he'd imagined. "Guess I should leave you to it, huh?"

Drew swallows. "Yeah, leave me to it," he echoes, like this is a totally normal thing for them to be talking about.

He's already wondering how long he can make himself wait. He's so wound up he could probably get himself off in about two minutes, so maybe he only has to hold off until Danny shuts himself in the bathroom, but—somehow that still feels like it's Not Okay, like it's outside of these weird arbitrary boundaries he's set for himself. He ought to wait until later. He'll feel better about it, he's sure, in the dead of night—once Laura's come home and she and Danny are tucked away in bed, sleeping soundly. Then Drew can jerk off guiltily on Danny's living room floor, muffling his gasps in a borrowed pillow and trying not to think about all those things he doesn't let himself think about. After all, it's not like he hasn't been there before.


End file.
